The Memory of Blood (32 page)

‘We don’t know what Kramer is capable of doing. He’ll use her to get what he wants, then dump her. It’s more business than pleasure. I don’t suppose we’ll get any more answers from Kramer or his wife, not unless we allow Jack Renfield to torture them—something he’d probably relish the opportunity to do. I think we need to bring in Gail Strong.’

PCs Colin Bimsley and Meera Mangeshkar were sent to Gail Strong’s Notting Hill apartment together to bring her in for further questioning. They were sent as a pair because there was a likelihood that Strong would have reporters and photographers hanging around on her doorstep, and someone would have to distract them.

‘Have you noticed we get all the crappy jobs?’ Meera complained. ‘Go through the bins, sit on a roof all night, update the reports. Bryant tried to get me to make him a cup of tea the other day, but I told him to bugger off.’

‘I don’t mind making him tea. I always feel guilty when he does those big wet puppy eyes and looks helpless.’

‘You’re a pushover.’ Mangeshkar swiped herself out through the tube barrier at Notting Hill.

‘I don’t know why we couldn’t have taken your Kawasaki,’ said Bimsley.

‘Because I didn’t want you pushing yourself up against me every time I braked, thank you. What number is it?’

Bimsley pointed. A pair of overweight men were loitering outside one of the terraced houses with coffee cups and telephoto lenses.

‘Okay, let’s avoid these creeps. See if there’s another way we can get her out of the building.’ Meera punched out Gail’s number on her mobile. ‘No answer. She was there half an hour ago.’ She approached one of the photojournalists. ‘Oi, you waiting to get pictures of Gail Strong?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m a police officer, that’s what it is to me. Sling your hook before I run you in.’

‘You got no right to order us around.’

‘Terrorism Act. This is a High Alert area. I can bang you up without even bothering to invent a reason.’

The men grumbled, but gathered their equipment together promptly.

‘Have you seen her?’ Meera called. ‘Did she go out?’

‘What, you want our help now?’ The photographer spat at her feet and waddled off.

‘Come on.’ They crossed the road to the front porch of the house. Meera checked the bells and rang the top one. They heard it buzz somewhere above their heads. Colin stepped back to examine the top floor windows. ‘No sign of movement. How are we going to get in?’

‘Cover me.’ Meera put her elbow through a square of glass and felt for the lock.

‘Blimey, Meera, that’s B and E.’

‘She could be hurt. What would the old man do?’

‘Break in, you’re right.’ Bimsley followed her up the darkened stairway.

On the fourth floor, they found the door to flat 160D ajar. ‘Someone’s forced the lock.’ Meera pointed to the damaged hasp. The pair advanced cautiously into the dimly lit flat, searching each room. The kitchen and lounge were undisturbed, but someone had recently been here. A Lily Allen CD was still playing with four tracks left to go. ‘Colin, in here.’

It was hard to tell if the bedroom showed signs of a struggle, or whether Strong was just untidy. Shoes had been kicked off and clothes were scattered over the floor.

‘Fire escape, over there,’ said Meera, leading the way to the back of the house. The rear door onto the black iron escape was shut but unlocked.

Colin studied the back gardens. ‘There’s a gap in the fence. It goes straight out into the road behind. The photographers wouldn’t have seen a thing.’

‘You’re forgetting something. She’s trouble. If she’d been abducted she would have made a hell of a noise.’

‘She’s small. He could have knocked her out and carried her.’

‘Let’s call it in. I’ll get to the neighbours, see if anyone saw anything. Although around here the only people who are ever home are the Filipino nannies.’

Meera dashed off as Bimsley double-checked the bedroom. ‘Three deaths and a kidnapping,’ grumbled Bimsley. ‘The old man’s going to go nuts.’

J
anice Longbright stood and stretched. She had taken on the Anna Marquand case as a favour to Arthur, but had reached a dead end. If Ashley Hagan hadn’t stolen the girl’s cell phone, who had, and why? She stared at the shopping bag on her desk and tried to imagine what had happened. In desperation, she emptied it out on the desk again. A half-litre bottle of Gordon’s gin, a volume of poetry, a packet of Handi Wipes, some tomatoes, a tin of beans.

Anna had come up to town and given Arthur his book, then caught the Northern Line south to London Bridge, where she changed to Bermondsey. Leaving the station, she stopped in at Tesco and walked home with her shopping bag, where she was attacked. All pretty straightforward.

No, not straightforward.

Her attacker had been after something more. Longbright had a habit of keeping passwords on her mobile. She knew she
shouldn’t, but who could remember every user name and code phrase? What if Anna had done the same? What if he had already searched their house? How did he do it, and when? No, that didn’t work, because Rose Marquand never went out, and nobody had broken in. Besides, he had taken Anna’s keys and found out that there was another lock-up, which was why he had gone to the pool. But had he actually found anything?

Longbright called Anna’s mother.

‘I can’t talk to you right now,’ said Mrs Marquand. ‘I’ve got all this washing up to sort out, and then the laundry. I have trouble getting around with my back, and there’s so much clearing up to do.’

‘I thought you had Sheena helping you.’

‘So did I, but she buggered off.’

‘What happened?’

‘Bloody little thief. I went upstairs and found her going through Anna’s bedroom. All the drawers open, all her papers out. You can’t trust nobody no more.’

‘What about her safe?’

‘Wide open. I was going to call the police but she ran out of the house. This was yesterday morning. I haven’t seen her since, and her mobile number isn’t working.’

‘Is there anything missing?’

‘Not that I can see. Anna has files for all her clients and they’re numbered, one to thirty. It looks like all the files are still there.’

Except one. Arthur told her he’d let Anna look after the disc, because he was likely to lose it. Anna knew what was on it. Her attacker had been through the shopping bag and the lido locker—maybe he hadn’t found it after all. Maybe she’d been too smart for him. So what the hell had she done with it? Longbright rang off and went next door to see Bryant.

‘Arthur, are you free for a moment?’

‘For you I have all the time in the world.’ He aimed her at a ratty armchair she had not seen before. ‘It was in the attic,’ he informed her. ‘I found a swastika flag down the back of the seat but apart from that it’s very comfortable. You should come up there with me—there’s all kinds of strange stuff stored away.’

‘Was there anything in your memoirs that could have been considered dangerous?’

‘Anna removed the most contentious passages. There were some bits about past prime ministers that weren’t very flattering. A few mentions of missile bases, Russian spies, the pensions scandal—’

‘But does any one thing stick out above all the rest? Anything worth killing for?’

‘You think Anna Marquand was murdered? It was blood poisoning. You can get that from virtually anything.’

‘I know, but it’s the timing that makes me suspicious. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but Anna’s mother was befriended by a girl who just turned up on her doorstep one day offering her services as a carer. Then, when Mrs Marquand caught her going through Anna’s belongings, she fled. If someone had been monitoring Anna’s electronic mail, they would have known what she was working on. I want Giles to talk to his opposite number at Bermondsey mortuary. I need to know if there was anything at all suspicious about Anna Marquand’s death. I think there was something in your memoirs that could be considered a danger to national security, and Anna knew what it was, even if she didn’t realise the importance of it.’

‘That’s the trouble.’ Bryant shook his head. ‘I’ve only got Anna’s edited final version of the book to go on—some of the notes were written, some were dictated. I simply can’t remember what might have been in the original. Talk to Giles anyway, see if he can pull any strings with the coroner.’

‘Are you sure there’s absolutely no possibility of you remembering all the things you wrote about?’ Longbright pressed.

‘I suppose there might be one way,’ said Bryant. ‘Hypnotism. If I was put under, I might be able to recall what it was. And I know the very person who could do it.’

‘Y
ou’re a bit out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?’ said Dr Leo Hendrick, resident coroner at the Bermondsey mortuary. The young Jamaican’s borough was a tough beat that suffered a statistically disproportionate level of violent crime, but he was fast building a reputation as the most ambitious medical officer in town. ‘I suppose we should be flattered, a specialist coming south of the river to see us at work.’

‘It may be nothing,’ Giles Kershaw admitted, setting down his briefcase. Clearly, Bermondsey had more money than St Pancras; the building was new and fitted with state-of-the-art equipment. Hendrick received him in a carpeted visitors’ room that was as smart as a hotel suite.

‘It was kind of you to see me. We just wanted to run something by you.’

‘Yes, I read your email. Not being rude, but it sounds to me like you think I made a wrong call, and you’re fishing for a different verdict that’s a better fit with your investigation.’

‘Not at all. I’m perfectly happy to let your diagnosis stand. But there’s been some additional information about the case that we thought you should know.’ He explained about the coincidence of Anna Marquand’s property being searched, and her role in handling sensitive information for government departments.

‘Why was I not told of this?’ Hendrick complained, checking Anna’s notes on his laptop.

‘This kind of information doesn’t just drop into the case files,’ Giles explained. ‘It’s part of the PCU’s brief to make such connections.’

‘When Anna Marquand came in, there was nothing in the patient notes about her background. Her address told me she’s from a low-income housing estate. She suffered from a stomach ulcer but seemed healthy enough apart from that. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what these girls get up to. We have to make some assumptions.’

‘She went to Nuffield College, Oxford. Surely that should have given you a clue to her background. She was an academic.’

‘A university background is no signifier of class. She could have had a college education and become a junkie. She had tetanus. It’s a soil-based infection, Mr Kershaw. In other words, dirt.
Clostridium tetani
is very hardy. The spores get into a wound and spasm the muscles, locking the jaw and forcing air from the body. It’s found in the environment, not transmitted from person to person. More common in developing nations than over here. Soil, dust, animal waste. The bacteria enters through puncture wounds. I’ve seen it caused by rusty nails, insect bites, a wooden splinter, a torn nail. IV drug use, obviously, but she wasn’t a user. The only wound on her body was a tiny nick from the bread knife.